A Wife No Matter How You Say It
After our honeymoon, we went back to Munich. No longer “living in sin,” I was now acceptable to all the army wives except for the fact that I had no children and each of them had several. I soon realized that we had nothing in common to talk about (I certainly wasn’t interested in diapers and hairdos), and I stopped accepting their invitations. Most of the time I stayed home, cooked, and explored German markets. Munich was slowly beginning to revive itself, and rich Bavarian food was appearing in restaurants and shops. What I found astonishing was the number of sweet pastries and gobs of heavy cream Bavarians could eat. In the late afternoon, I’d go to a coffeehouse in my neighborhood for a rich, fragrant German coffee. I’d sit staring at women, sporting dark green or brown hats with small veils, devouring bowls of whipped cream, layer cakes slathered with chocolate and custard, and buttery pastries with jam. In delicatessens, I discovered smoked hams, headcheese with pickles, bologna, and liverwurst, which I enjoyed spreading on the moist brown bread for lunch. The meals I prepared in the evening were completely French, however. I sautéed pork chops stuffed with garlic and herbs and served them with a purée of parsnips; I braised a chicken with wild, fresh mushrooms and accompanied it with string beans tossed with garlic and parsley The only dish that was influenced by Munich was choucroute, a dish based on sauerkraut cooked with sausages and smoked pork. I had to rinse the overly briny German sauerkraut and cook it slowly in white wine; only then was the dish mellow and refined.
Jimmy and I talked every night about our future and what we should do. The most pressing question was where we should go after Jimmy was discharged from the army. Paris? New York? Another city? As is often the case, fate made the choice for us. Jimmy found out that he was going to be kicked out of his unit for marrying a foreigner, a potential enemy in the eyes of the army, and be sent to Augsburg, a smaller city nearby where other American units were stationed. But the transfer papers moved very slowly, and in November we were still in Munich. Jimmy was entitled to a week’s leave, so we decided to take a trip to Italy. While studying at Harvard, Jimmy had befriended a young Italian architect, Pietro, with whom he had spent all his free time. Upon graduation, Pietro suggested that Jimmy join him in Italy and become his partner in an architectural venture. Jimmy suggested we visit him in his hometown, Udine, in the north. I was happy to be back in Italy and proud that I had not forgotten my Italian. We were greeted warmly by Pietro and given the grand tour of his provincial but charming little town. We ate broiled chicken and fresh pasta and downed bottles of Tokai, the local wine in a trattoria called La Vedova (The Widow). In Italy we were poorer, and going to a restaurant meant eating most of the time at small, informal trattorias. We were regulars at the Vedova, with its open kitchen in the middle of the dining room. Small, tender chickens were broiled on a charcoal grill in the center of the room. As guests sat wherever they wished, they were brought a pitcher of local wine, along with olives, sliced salami, and a basket of country bread. I loved that trattoria and felt more at home there than in a French bistro. Pietro again asked Jimmy to join him in his architectural studio. Pietro’s father had been Udine’s most respected architect, and now his son had taken over his father’s practice with his sisters, who were also architects. I thought that it was a wonderful idea but wondered how we would live there. “I will take care of everything,” Pietro insisted. “I will find an apartment for you and Colette, and you will get paid right away. Don’t worry about anything.” Jimmy accepted.
Chicken Vedova
In Udine the chicken were free-range, small and scrawny. To make this dish you need poussins, or very small chickens. Cut four 1½-pound chickens in two. Rub the chicken with garlic cloves and then with 2 tablespoons lime juice. Sprinkle the chickens with salt and pepper. Mix 2 tablespoons oregano with 2 tablespoons thyme. Rub the chicken with the herbs and refrigerate for at least 1 hour. Just before broiling, rub the chickens with 2 tablespoons olive oil. Broil the chickens on one side for 8 minutes, turn them, and broil them for another 8 minutes. The broiling time depends on how large the chickens are. Serve the chickens with a salad of watercress. Serves 4 to 8.
Upon our return, Jimmy announced to his commander that he wanted to be discharged in Munich. Within a few weeks his discharge papers were approved, and just before he was to leave his unit, they decided to give us a farewell party. This was my first encounter with a formal American dinner, which I have never forgotten.
The wives stood chatting in one corner of the living room while the men occupied another, and everyone was drinking hard liquor and smoking. I was shy among the women and contributed little to their chatter. I tried to listen in on the men’s conversation, which centered on West Germany’s attempt at becoming independent. I had a problem with America’s political stance and its friendliness toward the Germans. After all, the Germans had lost but they were recuperating much faster than the French, a situation I resented. Also I had had an unpleasant incident a few days before. We had been to Octoberfest, a festival celebrating the newly made winter beer held in a large brewery’s garden just outside Munich. Long tables were set up, and waitresses dressed in Bavarian costumes served large steins of strong dark beer. We were welcomed by the other guests as we sat down at one of the communal tables. They smiled, nodded and murmured, “American? Nice … have a beer on us.” Jimmy smiled back and explained that he was American and I was French. The smiles disappeared immediately, and the free beer never materialized. I was shaken. Once I shook myself out of this reverie, I slowly drifted toward the men to listen further. I looked back at the women and realized immediately that I had made a mistake. They seemed upset so I worked myself back into the female fold. Later, we all sat down to dinner. The first course was boiled shrimps with a strange, slightly sweet red sauce that Jimmy told me later was ketchup. I hated it then and I still hate it. My children jokingly say they were deprived youngsters because I never allowed ketchup in the house. Next to the shrimps was a salad that I had never seen before. “What is it?” I asked one of the guests. “You don’t know? Poor thing! You should come and shop with us at the commissary This comes directly from home; it’s iceberg lettuce.” They were also sure I would love the thick pink sauce called French dressing poured on top of the salad. The lettuce was crunchy cold, and had absolutely no flavor, and the pink dressing was nothing like the vinaigrette I was used to. I was confused as to why this food was not appealing, but I tried to eat a little anyway.
I also had a problem with the main course—roast turkey served with a red sweet jelly (all the sauces seemed to be a different shade of red!) and stuffed with a slightly doughy, overcooked mixture of breadcrumbs, celery, and onions. When I was asked what I would like to drink, I replied, “Red wine would be fine, thank you.” There was muted laughter, and I was offered Coca-Cola instead. As a student in Paris, I had tried Coca-Cola and disliked its sweet medicinal taste, so the idea of drinking Coca-Cola with my meal seemed quite ridiculous to me. I asked for plain water and continued picking at my meal. The only thing that saved the day was dessert, a scrumptious American apple pie, plump, juicy, and infused with cinnamon. Later that evening the men played poker and I sat next to Jimmy, refusing to join the ladies in the other room. Later I thanked my hostess for a delicious meal. She said she would be happy to write down all the recipes. I thanked her again and explained that I wasn’t much of a cook. A few days later, we packed and left in our little magenta sports car for a leisurely trip down to Udine.
Although Udine—the commercial and banking center of the Friulli-Venezia region of Italy—is a short car ride from Venice, they are completely different cities in every way Whereas Venice is a gem of architecture, Udine has no famous monuments, no good restaurants, and especially no tourists. In the center of the town is a hill, which, legend has it, was built by Attila the Hun in order to admire from a distance the burning of Aquileia, a city that he had conquered. Everyone in Udine was very proud of this man-made hill; I, too, was enamored of it and often climbed to its peak to admire the magnificent valleys that surrounded the town.
Pietro put us up for the first few days in a small pensione, the Italian version of a bed-and-breakfast. Later that afternoon he took us to the apartment he had rented for us, which was in a very old building overlooking the market square, near Via Mercatovecchio, a busy street lined with small shops. The apartment was quite large with two bedrooms, a very primitive bathroom, no heat, and a bare kitchen with just two burners and a stone sink. With no furniture, no light, and a pervasive smell of decay, the apartment filled me with dismay Jimmy did not seem to care, too excited by Udine, Pietro’s studio, and the architectural work. We had very little money, since the Egyptian government sent us only about two hundred dollars a month while my suit with them was pending. That night in the hotel, I tried to discuss with Jimmy what we should do. Buy furniture? No, that was ridiculous. How would we get it back to the United States later on? Also, I pointed out to him, the apartment was too cold, and despite the fact that everyone in Udine looked at the blue sky and the bright sun and told me how warm the weather was, I was freezing. It was late October and it would soon get even colder. Jimmy suggested that I look around for another apartment. The next morning, armed with the local paper, I went searching for a real estate agent. I found Manuelo, newly in business and eager to practice his English. “I have to improve my English,” he said. “If you help me improve, I will charge you very little because now that the American army has important headquarters here in Udine, its officers needed some help with apartments.” “For the officers?” I asked. “Ma no, signora, for the girlfriends!” So sitting behind Manuelo on his little Vespa, holding on to his waist for my life, I went hunting for an apartment. Jimmy and I could not compete financially with the American officers, so we ended up on the edge of town, near the Italian barracks housing the Italian soldiers. Manuelo introduced me to his friend Signora Baldini, who, as a widow, had inherited enough money to build herself a villa. The attic was for rent and she offered it to me. The space was grand but it had no kitchen, no bathroom, and no heat. “How can we live here?” I asked Manuelo. Well, it turned out that Manuelo, knowing that Jimmy was an architect, had suggested to the Signora that Jimmy could design a bathroom and a kitchen and the Signora would build them and charge a reduced rent. Pietro thought it was mad, Jimmy loved the idea, and I was pleased. Within a month we moved in. The room was very large. Jimmy had designed a box in the center of the room, which housed the bathroom and divided the room in two. The bathroom had a bathtub, a sink, and a toilet. In a corner was a very primitive type of water heater. In order to have hot water, I would sit on the toilet and feed the hot-water heater with wood while Jimmy washed himself. Then he would do the same for me. On very cold days, I simply refused to wash.
On one side of the bathroom was the living-dining room, heated by a stuffa, similar to a Franklin stove, made of bricks but terribly inefficient. Jimmy drew several sketches of me literally sitting on the stuffa trying to warm myself. The kitchen was another problem. It was in the corner of the living room and consisted of a table with a two-burner portable range and the smallest refrigerator I had ever seen. Next to it was a stone sink with only cold water. How was I to cook? “Very easy,” Manuelo said. “When you need to use the oven, go to the baker. He will bake for you!” Pietro lent us a bed, four chairs, a dresser, a round dining table, and an old couch. I went to the market to buy pots and pans, china and cutlery, and we were set to live in luxury, Italian style, for the next few years.
I bought myself a bicycle, and every morning after Jimmy left for the studio, I went shopping in the neighborhood. I was known as the American lady because at the butcher I insisted that my steaks be cut thick, not by an electric slicer. I learned how to distinguish good veal, make a real Bolognese sauce, and cook fresh pasta perfectly. In the evening we often went out to dinner with Pietro or with his sisters. La Vedova was our usual choice as was the house specialty—broiled chicken. I tried to get the recipe but the owner always refused. She finally gave in when I went to say goodbye before we left Udine for the United States. She handed me the recipe with a warm embrace.
The best part of my week was Saturday, market day. Merchants and farmers from around Udine came there to sell their fruits and vegetables, cooking utensils, dresses, and linens. The market was packed. I had my favorite stands, like the one belonging to an old woman who sold shiny radicchio salad, artichokes, and bitter rapini. As soon as I got to the market she would call after me, “Bambina, vieni qui.” One day, I told her I was a new bride, and she insisted I buy a live turtle. “Good for marriage,” she said. “Put her under the stuffa, feed her some lettuce leaves, and everything will be all right with you and your husband and you will have lots of bambini.” I bought the turtle and took her home in a cardboard box. Once home, I placed the box under the stuffa as I had been instructed. Sometimes I took her out and let her roam the room. I would stroke her neck and feel as if she were some kind of goddess who was here to protect Jimmy and me. I loved her.
I often asked the old woman how to cook the seasonal vegetables she sold, and she gave me wonderful recipes—stewed eggplant with red peppers, and stuffed zucchini. The fruit stands were loaded down with magnificent melons, grapes, and tiny tangerines that perfumed the whole house. There was Hugo, who called me la Francesa. He sold small potatoes, thin string beans, eggplants of different shapes and colors, delicate baby spinach, and crunchy fresh fennel. Next to him was a glassed-in truck where I bought porchetta, the roasted pork roll stuffed with herbs, and salamis and prosciutto, from both San Daniele and Parma. In the spring the tomatoes, deep red and intensely flavored, made a superb tomato salad with red onions and fresh basil. The Saturday butcher was quite different from the one I went to during the week. He sold plump chickens that I would roast in the baker’s oven and serve with spicy salt; small quails that could be pan-roasted; rabbit; pheasants; and very expensive veal. Manuelo introduced me to Signor Francesco, the olive oil merchant on Via Mercatovecchio. His dark shop was filled with enormous green glass bottles of olive oil wrapped in straw. The oils ranged from pale yellow to rich green, and Francesco invited me to taste as many as I wished, dipping pieces of bread into little crocks. He filled my bottles with a light-colored oil for cooking, a dark, more pungent one to drizzle over vegetables, and a fragrant, spicy one for salads. Next door, a similar shop was filled with wooden barrels of Tokai, and I’d buy several bottles that were delivered right to my door. Again, before I bought, I had to taste the different vintages. By the end of the morning, I was often slightly tipsy but always very happy.
The first week of November—we had been in Udine for a month—my landlady asked me for the rent. When I asked Jimmy for money, I found out we had very little left. Money hadn’t yet arrived from Egypt, and Pietro’s office had no money to pay Jimmy for his work. I decided that I should sell something before I wrote Paris for help. I still had twelve gold bangles that my grandfather had given me, as well as several gold coins. In the morning I went to the café on Piazza Libertà where I often stopped for espresso and where I gave the owner’s daughter weekly English lessons so she could converse with her boyfriend, an American officer. Paola was hoping that he would marry her and take her to America. I sat down with her and explained my problem. She spoke to her father, and over the next three months, I sold three of my gold bangles, which paid the rent and for some of our daily expenses. I still struggled with our cold apartment. I would leave in the morning and roam the streets of Udine, trying to find stores that were well heated, buying nothing but keeping warm. Once again, Manuelo saved me. He told me that his American officers were looking for someone who spoke both English and Italian to teach them Italian. I went to meet the head of the unit stationed in Udine and was hired to teach Italian four times a week for two hours. My salary for postwar Udine was enormous—two hundred American dollars a month that Paola gladly changed into lire for me. “It’s for my trip to America,” she’d say. What pleased me even more than the cash was the warmth of the room where I taught. I always came an hour earlier and sat on the radiator, warming myself. Most of the time, the officers just wanted me to advise them about their girlfriends—what tender words to say and how to seduce them. Over the following months, we were secure. But as Thanksgiving approached, Jimmy began to be homesick. He missed his family, New York, and the food. He asked me if I would make a Thanksgiving dinner for the office and our friends. Thanksgiving? Jimmy explained the holiday and what was served: roast turkey stuffed with chestnuts, cranberries, Brussels sprouts, sweet potatoes, and pumpkin pie. I could find Brussels sprouts, but cranberries and sweet potatoes didn’t exist in Italy. I would have to roast the turkey at the bakery. We haggled over the price and he agreed to use his oven. Now, I had to find the turkey. On Saturday I went to the market and found a young boy who had poultry in wooden cages. I asked him if he had any turkeys. He did, and proceeded to hand me a beautiful live turkey; he was grinning, with a slightly mocking glint in his eye. No, I insisted, I’m not going to kill it myself! So after begging the boy for half an hour, I finally persuaded him to kill the turkey for a fee if I helped. We went to a dark alley around the corner, equipped with a large butcher’s knife. I closed my eyes and trembled, holding the writhing turkey. I heard a swish, let go of the bird, opened my eyes, and saw a headless turkey running in circles. We finally caught it, and I bicycled home with the warm, dead turkey in my basket. The next day, I prepared the turkey, stuffed it, and took it to the baker’s, telling him how long I wanted it cooked. I went down to Signora Baldini and baked a pumpkin pie (the French way), prepared the Brussels sprouts, and made a salad. After setting the table I went with Jimmy to get the turkey. It came out of the oven golden brown, filling the bakery with a wonderful smell of herbs and wine. Neighborhood kids, fascinated by the huge roasted bird, began to follow us down the street; it was like a scene from the Pied Piper. I promised the kids that if there was any turkey left I would bring it back to the baker for them. The dinner was a success, the leftovers were taken back to the baker’s, and from then on I was known as “the nice American lady”; when we went to the local movie house, we were always given the best seats.
Roast Turkey
In a bowl mix together 1 tablespoon salt, 1 tablespoon pepper, 2 shallots and 2 onions, finely chopped, 2 garlic doves, finely chopped, 2 tablespoons chopped parsley, 3 tablespoons red vinegar, 1½ cups white Vermouth or white wine, ½ tablespoon cumin, and ½ cup dark soy sauce. Rub this mixture on a 12-pound turkey and refrigerate overnight, turning the turkey twice. Meanwhile prepare the stuffing. In a bowl put about 25 dried apricots, soaked in brandy for 1 hour. Peel 3 green apples, cube them, and add to the bowl. Then add 3 cups peeled canned chestnuts, the grated rind of a lemon, salt and pepper to taste, and 1 tablespoon tarragon. Mix well and add 2 cups toasted bread cubes. Mix well. Remove the turkey from the refrigerator. Separate the skin of the breast and slide 1 tablespoon butter under the skin. Add 1 cup chicken stock to the stuffing and mix well. Fill the turkey cavity with the stuffing. Close the opening with foil Place the turkey with the marinade in a roasting pan. Roast in a preheated 375-degree oven for 20 minutes per pound, basting very often with the marinade and ¼ cup melted butter. Remove the turkey from the oven and allow it to rest for 15 minutes before carving. Serves 8 to 10.
But things were not all going well. Pietro and Jimmy did not really get along. The question of salary came up often, and the answers were always vague. Jimmy had not been paid, and his involvement was doubtful. Jimmy was getting more and more upset. One day, after an intense fight with Pietro, Jimmy came home and said, “Let’s pack our bags and leave. It’s time we went back to the United States. I want to build there. It’s my country, not Italy!” And so I said goodbye to all my friends, packed our bags, and sent them on to Paris. We drove off in our little sports car toward Paris. After an hour of driving, I suddenly realized that I had left my turtle under the stuffa. “We have to go back,” I cried. “I must have her!” We returned to Udine, but the turtle had disappeared. Had she known we were leaving? I was very upset but Signora Baldini comforted me. “It’s all right … buy another one when you know where you will live. If I find her I will take care of her.” I was heartbroken, but Jimmy seemed relieved that there was no turtle to take home. Our troubles were not over, though. Our car suddenly broke down, and it was Jimmy’s turn to be brokenhearted, having to sell his Morgan to a local garage. We took the train to Paris.
Pumpkin Pie
Make a pâte brisée: In a food processor mix 1½ cups sifted flour with 3 tablespoons sugar and 9 tablespoons butter, cut into small pieces. Then add 2 eggs and 1 tablespoon oil and process until all the ingredients are well mixed, With the machine still running, add ¼ cup ice water. The dough will form a ball. Remove the dough, dust it with flour, and wrap it in foil Refrigerate for 30 minutes. In the food processor place 2 cups pumpkin purée with ½ cup heavy cream, 4 eggs, 2 tablespoons brandy, ½ cup sugar, and ¼ teaspoon cinnamon. Process until all the ingredients are puréed. Butter a tart pan or a 9-inch pie pan. On a floured board roll out the dough. Place the dough in the pie pan, pressing the edges with a fork. Bake the pie crust in a preheated 375-degree oven for 10 minutes. Remove the pie from the oven, pour in the pumpkin purée, and bake it for 40 minutes, or until a knife inserted in the middle comes out clean. Serve the pie at room temperature with whipped cream. Serves 6 to 10.
In Paris, my mother and stepfather helped us find the cheapest way to go to New York—by boat. We booked passage on the Liberté, while our belongings were packed up to be shipped on a commercial liner. Clément sadly announced that the revolutionary government had nationalized everything, including the factories in which my father had invested. I had lost my suit and all I received was twenty thousand dollars to take with me to New York. We said our goodbyes and, poorer than I expected, sailed from Le Havre to a new life in New York.
* * *
As the boat left the harbor, I knew I was in trouble. I felt sick, and remembering my last sea voyage (long ago, from Egypt to France), I announced that I could not join Jimmy in the cabin below, and that I would have to stay on deck. Unable to eat anything, wrapped in blankets, I spent the six-day crossing feeling miserable despite the fact that Jimmy spent most of the day taking care of me. He prepared me for our arrival by talking about his family He spoke about his mother, Anne, whom I had met at our wedding, and who was now living eight months of the year in Coral Gables, Florida, spending the summers in New York. Murray, Jimmy’s brother, whom I also knew, was now a member of the New York Times editorial board and lived with his wife, Naima, and two very young sons, Maxwell and John, in a large apartment on the Upper West Side. We were going to stay with them for a few days until Jimmy found a job and an apartment. He also talked of his aunts, Edie and Gina, two spinsters whom he doted on. The night before we arrived in New York, the captain announced that the city had experienced an unexpected snowstorm and that seven inches of snow had fallen. Jimmy told me that we had to catch a glimpse of the Statue of Liberty as the boat approached New York Harbor. At five o’clock, on a cloudy, gray day on the first of April, the statue stood waving her snow-topped torch. I gripped Jimmy’s hand tightly, wondering what our life would be like in this new country.
Anne and Murray greeted us as we disembarked, but they looked rather grim. As we drove through the city, we learned that Jimmy’s favorite aunt, Edie, had died a few days before. While they talked, I looked around. After Paris, New York looked gray, ugly, and dirty. The snow, piled on the edges of the sidewalks, had already turned brown. My sense of foreboding grew as we approached the west side of Manhattan. We arrived in front of a magnificent building with large columns facing a garden enclosing another very large building that looked like a Parisian palace. “It’s the Museum of Natural History,” Murray volunteered. Its grandeur reassured me, and I began to feel better as we rode an old-fashioned elevator to the sixth floor of Murray’s apartment, across the street from the museum. At the door a charming little boy welcomed me. Maxwell was seven, and I liked him right away but I fell completely in love with his fifteen-month-old brother, John. I was twenty-two and wanted a child—and here was a baby who looked like my husband and took to me very quickly We settled down and over the next several days, Jimmy showed me New York. The weather changed, and New York’s famous blue sky and the sun shining on its skyscrapers began to work their magic. Life promised to be interesting and fun if I could get out of. my in-laws’ apartment. To begin with, the food was a problem. I got used to white toast for breakfast, but American coffee was horribly weak compared to the rich Italian brew I was accustomed to. Naima, my new British sister-in-law, made strong English tea for me instead. When my mother-in-law prepared lunch, it was invariably a tuna fish sandwich on white bread. The tuna fish, to my horror and disgust, was mixed with some sort of sweet mayonnaise and celery. The bread became soggy, and I had to pretend a violent stomachache in order not to eat it. Dinner was served around seven, much too early for me, even if I had had no lunch. If Naima cooked, I asked if I could help, and together we managed to make some very good meals: coq au vin, blanquette de veau, real French fries. Later I won Maxwell’s heart by making golden crêpes stuffed with jam at least twice a week. But if it was my mother-in-law’s turn to cook, I had to face soft vegetables and stewed meats swimming in greasy sauces. She made an orange gelatin (Jell-O, I later discovered) with bits of carrot floating inside it, or a baked ham with pineapple and brown sugar. I couldn’t get used to the excessive sweetness mingling with the savory, and I usually stuck with her oft-served baked potatoes, which she left alone. Anne’s walnut cookies, however, were fabulous—rich yet delicate—but she never divulged the recipe and only made them when she knew I was out. After a month of living with them, I had lost about fifteen pounds and liked myself! I was slender for the first time in my life.
Only two weeks after our arrival, Jimmy found a job, left early every morning, and often worked Saturdays. One such Saturday, he asked me to join him at lunch so he could introduce me to his co-workers. Everyone called me “Colette,” which I found strange—no one in France would have called me by my given name the first time they met me. It took me a couple of years to get used to this friendly way of greeting someone I just met. We went to a local luncheonette, and Jimmy told me that the best thing there was a hamburger. In Paris we had steak haché from time to time, and I did like the sautéed ground steak, so I said I would try a hamburger co’oked rare. I took a bite of mine and it was well done. So I snapped my fingers and said, “Garçon, please, this is not good. I asked for a rare hamburger.” Jimmy blushed, terribly embarrassed in front of the others, and whispered, “Don’t say that,” but I insisted. And under the stares of Jimmy’s colleagues, the waiter took away my hamburger and five minutes later, brought me a new hamburger, freshly cooked to perfection. “Delicious,” I said with a smile, and everyone laughed at my pleasure. The next day Jimmy told me that everyone had been sick. The hamburgers were from the day before and had spoiled. I was the only one who had been served a freshly cooked one.
During the week, I offered to take John to the playground. Naima explained that I could place him in the sandbox or on a swing. Mothers minding their children approached me and plied me with questions about Naima and her husband. I tried to be polite, but after a few times, I told Naima that I didn’t want to go to the playground anymore. I was not used to so much familiarity (and nosiness) and I did not like it. Instead, I took John for walks in the neighborhood. Supermarkets baffled me. I stared at cuts of meat wrapped in plastic and wondered what they were, realizing that there wasn’t a butcher to tell me what was good that day. Vegetables and salads were even more difficult to choose from. The string beans looked overgrown and the tomatoes were pale and smelled like plastic. I couldn’t find shallots or tarragon or chervil; the only fresh herb was parsley. How was I going to cook? Worst of all was the bread. It was just a pain de mie (crustless white bread), sliced by machine and stuffed into plastic bags. At least I found out that Jewish stores sold good, crusty rye bread. And I liked the rich American milk, which I downed by the glass. I always say that I grew an inch taller when I arrived. I liked bacon, not for breakfast but on bread with sliced cucumbers. I discovered bagels and bialys, smoked salmon and smoked whitefish. Every day on our walk I bought a salt bagel for me and an egg bagel for John and we ate them in the street. When Jimmy came home at night, I tried to pretend that I was content, but I was truly bored. I had to leave my in-laws’ apartment, get one for us, get a job, or go to school. I asked Naima to help me find an apartment quickly and she discovered a small one two blocks away, with a small living room, a dinette—what Jimmy called a closet to eat in—a kitchenette (I was beginning to feel extra small with the name Colette), and a small bedroom (or sleepette?). Jimmy hated it because the windows overlooked a wall, but I just wanted to be in my own house, alone with my husband, my books, my food, and my own real life. And so we moved in with a bed, a small table, two chairs, and five huge straw baskets from France containing my trousseau. As I unpacked, I caressed the lovely linen sheets that Tante Beca had so carefully chosen for me. Could I really use them here? I had no maid to wash them, just a washing machine down the hall, which would ruin them. I put them away. There were dozens of tablecloths. Did she really think I was going to entertain that much? Suddenly, I longed to see my Egyptian family, to hear Ahmet’s voice calling me into the kitchen to taste something he had just made. I cried, then repacked the linens, closed the baskets, and set them aside. I decided that New York was my new home and I was going to live the way my new family did.
A few days after we moved in, I looked in the New York Times for a job and found an ad that required someone who spoke and wrote French but could also read and understand English. I immediately called the office and talked to a man who gave me an appointment for the next day. I took the subway alone to the interview, and I got the job right away. I would be paid fifty dollars a week to read all the newspapers published in New York, between 9 A.M. and 2 P.M. On Fridays I was to send by telex to the French newspaper a summary of the most interesting things I had read in the papers. On my first day, Mr. Roland handed me the New York Times, the Herald Tribune, the Post, the Wall Street Journal, and the Daily News and told me to start reading. I discovered how exciting and unusual America was. There were problems with the city, a mayoral election was coming up, Eisenhower was president, Congress was fraught with infighting, and there were multiple political scandals erupting. The most interesting of the papers was the Wall Street Journal. Every day its front page carried a small article about something extraordinary or bizarre or fun happening somewhere in the United States. I read the women’s page in the New York Times, learned about avant-garde theater, fashion, musicals. On Friday, I wrote a synopsis of the week and sent it to Paris. I was finally becoming familiar with New York. In the afternoon I took a bus all the way downtown to the Lower East Side and walked down Essex Street. There I could buy fresh butter, excellent bread, pickles, good olives, and dried fruit just like in Egypt. I discovered Bleecker Street and the Italian merchants, who sold fresh lettuce, delicious salami, prosciutto, and fresh pasta. I realized I did not have to buy meat in the supermarket, but found a good butcher who tried to cut meat as I liked it. I started to cook as I did in Munich and in Udine for Jimmy’s new friends.
As Christmas got nearer, Anne wrote from Florida that we should come and spend the holiday with her. She wanted to introduce us, the young couple, to her friends. We agreed. Coral Gables was then a rather small, provincial town near Miami. Anne’s house was set in a large garden filled with lemon, orange, and mango trees. The mango trees reminded me of Cairo, and the Spanish-style house was comfortable and pleasant. The first evening there, I was in for a surprise. Jimmy drove me to his favorite restaurant to try barbecued ribs for the first time. All my prejudices against American cuisine melted away as I sank my teeth into a juicy smoked rib! I had never tasted anything so delicious. I ate ten of them, sauce dripping from my chin, drinking beer, and having a. great time. The next day Anne announced that her women friends were inviting me, and only me, to a luncheon in a Miami hotel. I had never been to an all-women’s lunch, and the thought amused me. As we entered the private dining room, I found myself surrounded by a dozen women all about my mother-in-law’s age, who greeted me with little cries of “How charming … What a lovely accent … Would you look at her eyes!” One woman handed me an orchid in a plastic box; it was beautiful, and I was afraid it might die before I got home. I looked around, grabbed a glass of water, and placed the orchid in it. Several ladies frowned and clucked; the lady who had given me the orchid looked puzzled, and Anne bent down and whispered to me, “It’s a corsage. You’re supposed to pin it on your blouse!” Embarrassed, I apologized, pinned the ridiculous, smelly flower on my blouse, and sat down to lunch.
On Christmas Eve, Anne’s best friend gave a large dinner dance in our honor. We arrived late to the party, which had been going on for at least an hour. We were introduced as an exotic couple, a French-Egyptian wife married to Anne’s successful son. Guests had drunk a lot, and soon I found myself surrounded by a group of men saying things like, “You know, Frenchmen take two hours for lunch … can you imagine!” And “The French are not as hardworking as we are,” and “Those French forgot that we won the war for them.” This went on for an hour, until I couldn’t bear the humiliation and insisted that Jimmy take me home. Christmas had always been for me something I longed for—a family affair with a Christmas tree and lots of presents all around it. In my fantasy, children sang carols and I’d make a wonderful dinner that we would eat at midnight. The house was cold when we returned, and I was shivering with anger and hurt, so Jimmy built a fire and took me in his arms, kissing me lovingly. “You will have your dream soon,” he whispered. “Let’s make love on the carpet here, near the fire; let’s make a baby.” We made love with passionate abandon that night, and I fell asleep knowing that I was going to have a child. Whatever life had in store for us, I was ready.
Back in New York, I soon found out that I was pregnant. I immediately wrote my mother. To my surprise, she wrote back that she was thrilled. Her letters came weekly, with inquiries about my health, my needs, and the baby’s name. A month before the birth, she asked me if she could come, and I was secretly pleased. I was lonely and needed a friend. My mother arrived with several suitcases, and I was afraid that she would stay with us for months but did not dare ask her. As we brought her back to our tiny two-bedroom apartment, I was worried that she would criticize it, but she seemed quite happy to be in New York with us. I left her alone to unpack, and when I returned half an hour later, the bed was covered with piles of baby gifts—knitted frocks, daintily embroidered linen sheets, hand-crocheted bonnets, starched bibs, and booties in all the colors of a pastel rainbow. “Where did you find all these lovely things?” I asked, picking up a linen sheet embroidered with tiny little rabbits and turtles. “Grace of Monaco is expecting a baby, just like you, and she’s due about the same time. Did you know that Paris Match published the baby’s trousseau?” No, I did not. My mother had decided that her grandchild should have all the things that Grace of Monaco had ordered for her child. I kissed my mother fondly. I was very happy.
Two weeks after my mother’s arrival, Marianne was born. Five days later I was back home, tired but happy and proud of my tiny baby. As I entered the apartment, I saw a magnificent, enormous baby carriage standing in the middle of the living room. “It is an English pram,” my mother explained. “Clément and I thought that Marianne should have the best … the Rolls-Royce of carriages!” My smile covered up my dismay; I was thinking how difficult it would be for me to take it in and out of the elevator! One night, exhausted from the endless round of breast-feeding, I woke up to Marianne’s desperate crying—the hoarse sobs that come after many minutes of wailing. I rose in a panic, only to find my mother rocking the baby and singing her a song, effectively soothing her. It wasn’t time to feed her, so I tiptoed back to bed thinking that if I did not have the type of mother I had wanted, at least Marianne would have a great grandmother. And it turned out to be true.
When Marianne was eight months old, my stepfather insisted that the three of us come to Maison Laffitte, a then rural suburb outside Paris, where he and my mother had a large house. Jimmy had been working very hard and needed a break, so we decided to accept his offer. This time Jimmy insisted that I have a new wardrobe and for the first time ever, he took me shopping. He chose elegant dresses, shoes, and a decadent hat. “I want you to look beautiful,” he told me earnestly “I want your family to admire my lovely wife and how America transformed her into an elegant young woman. I want to show them that we are not a country of barbarians!” I laughed at his pleasure. I was delighted, happy and proud to show off my husband and my new baby to my friends and my family.
When we arrived in Paris, Mira fell in love with my baby girl and played with her in their garden. My mother decided that Jimmy and I needed a vacation and announced that she would take care of Marianne. We were free to explore Paris together. That night, Jimmy and I walked down the Champs Elysées to Le Jour et La Nuit, the restaurant where we had eaten dinner four years ago. It was there that we had decided to spend our lives together. I don’t remember what we ate but it must have been magic, for our marriage has so far lasted forty-seven years.